


Storm Queens & Winter Kings

by BrightneeBee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Choosing Sides, Dowager Princess Laurylle Baratheon, F/M, Love, Oral Sex, Passion, Princess Gyanna Baratheon, Scheming, Second Child, Sister of late King Robert, Smut, Tender Sex, The Game, Twin of Renly Baratheon, Two Original Female Characters, Violence & War, daughter of late King Robert, gendry baratheon, gendrya implied, rightful heir to the throne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightneeBee/pseuds/BrightneeBee
Summary: A lone figure stood vigil in the midst of the violent storm, deep in the royal gardens under a carved, red stone rotunda overlooking the bay. Clad in black, the slight woman withstood the force of the gales as the rain masked her tears. The black veil she wore whipped about her face, her long black hair as well, as the wind formed the thick Myrish silk skirts of her dress against her slender legs. Despite being soaked to the bone, everything about the woman was alive in motion as she stood and prayed to the Tempests, the furious beings that unleashed such cruelty at the behest of one singular tear escaping her eyes, like vicious hurricanes swirling about obsidian pupils.
Relationships: Jory Cassel/Original Female Character(s), Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Question, I have made up multiple fic banners for some of my stories, two of which are for this fic. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to insert them for you all to see in the chapters, or wherever. If anyone has any idea, please comment and I will definitely respond, if you know how to do this. I would really appreciate it!!!!
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> No regrets!

STORM QUEENS & WINTER KINGS

STORM QUEENS & WINTER KINGS

Laurylle Baratheon

  
  


It was a cool day in King’s Landing, a rarity during the last dregs of Summer, but no less welcome after months of unbearable heat. The ominous clouds had swept up from Shipbreaker Bay, growing stronger along the Narrow Sea, only to curl inwards over the capitol to unleash a storm the likes of which none had ever experienced so far from the Stormlands. None could fathom how a storm of such magnitude manifested over the Red Keep and surrounding lands, yet the weather reflected the mood of all in castle. Thunder clapped and roared, lightning laced through the clouds above, striking down in the roiling waves of Blackwater Bay, while the winds howled through every crack and crevice of the city, from the ramparts to the highest towers, to the clay buildings of Flea Bottom and the stalls lining the streets of the market districts. 

The rain and wind washed over King’s Landing with a subtle chill that tempered the hot stone and calming the humidity that threatened to suffocate the people day and night. 

A lone figure stood vigil in the midst of the violent storm, deep in the royal gardens under a carved, red stone rotunda overlooking the bay. Clad in black, the slight woman withstood the force of the gales as the rain masked her tears. The black veil she wore whipped about her face, her long black hair as well, as the wind formed the thick Myrish silk skirts of her dress against her slender legs. Despite being soaked to the bone, everything about the woman was alive in motion as she stood and prayed to the Tempests, the furious beings that unleashed such cruelty at the behest of one singular tear escaping her eyes, like vicious hurricanes swirling about obsidian pupils. 

“Aunt Laurylle?” a voice called through the deafening sound of the rain. “Auntie?”

There was a sadness that matched the woman’s own sorrow, underneath the thinly veiled fury. The gentleness of the girl’s voice cut through the woman’s own grief, and she turned to embrace her niece. Such a sweet little fawn, yet fierce, strong, like her father. 

“Gyanna,” Laurylle Baratheon sniffled, inches shorter than the princess, but reaching up to brush away the girl’s tears. “Lord Arryn would never wish us to wallow in our grief, nor burn in our rage. We have both bid our farewells, and he has passed on. No more tears, my darling niece.”

“Then why do you cry so?” sobbed the princess, eyes brimming with tears, nose red and running as she attempted to hold her own sadness in check. 

“ _Ours is the Fury_ ,” quoted the woman, no older than one and twenty, with a face of seemingly eternal youth, but commanding an air of regality and unyielding strength. “Remember what Lord Arryn told you, and do not speak of it until the time is right. I would much rather see you live, than to see your head removed from your body. We both know what Joffrey is like.”

“I swear,” Gyanna replied, choking down her sobs and nodding in agreement, clutching at her aunt’s hands. “I swear on my life, Aunt Laurylle.” 

“He was a good man and a dear friend,” said Laurylle, aware that the raging storm had dwindled to a solemn drizzle in the span of mere minutes. “You will prove yourself to be the woman he believed in. Now what are our words?”

“ _Ours is the Fury_ ,” recited the princess, so beautiful, even at the age of five and ten, but no less a Baratheon. “And we will tear asunder all who dare to stoke our rage.” 

“No truer words will ever be spoken,” Laurylle stated as she looped her niece’s arm under the crook of her delicate elbow, guiding the girl away from the settling waters of Blackwater Bay in favor of finding shelter in the Red Keep. “Once Lord Arryn’s body has been tended, shrouded and sent onward to the Vale, we must be ready. There must be a new Hand of the King, and my brother will undoubtedly choose to undertake the journey North to make the request to Lord Eddard Stark.” 

Gyanna listened intently, despite the tears still escaping down her cheeks. She was an intelligent young woman, a trait inherited from her mother, but the rest was purely her father’s side of the family. Cersei Lannister had never truly bonded with her firstborn children, prevented from it based on the fact that Robert Baratheon was their true father. The young queen had tried, but something prevented her from truly loving those first two babes. 

Laurylle had been a young girl, no more than five or six and attached to the hip of her twin, Renly, but she remembered hearing the Queen’s screams as she labored for hours. Then came the wail, one strong cry that continued through the night, like the squalls that blew through Storm’s End. By the morning, the babe was named, and Robert’s siblings had been brought to view the prince, a red faced warrior of a baby. 

_Gendry of House Baratheon and Lannister._

Days later, she watched as the baby boy was carried out in swaddling and handed to one of the Queen’s handmaids, the one with pretty cornsilk hair and a warm smile. It was Ser Jaime, Laurylle remembered, who handed the baby over. His golden hair had just begun to grow past his ears, but he was still a very young warrior. She remembered it as if it were yesterday, as Ser Jaime placed three pouches of gold dragons into the handmaid’s hand and told her to take the prince away. 

_Care for him as if he were your own…_

After that day, Laurylle and Renly had been told by their older brother, King Robert, that the babe had died. As a child, Laurylle had paid it little mind, but years later would remember it with clarity and seek out that handmaid, that little boy. It became baffling, how quickly her brother’s wife had sent away his son, unable to look upon the baby without a spark of hate in her heart, and to spite the man that could never love her. Yet Cersei had kept the baby girl, Gyanna, that arrived a year later. 

Peculiar, but not so unexpected. A little girl was special, but not a threat to whatever Cersei had planned. The woman tried to love her daughter, for months she tried, yet the unconditional love of a mother for her child did not blossom as it did when Joffrey was born. Cersei loved her golden haired babes, and protected them like a fierce lioness, but Gyanna, with her dark hair and stormy eyes, proved too much of a reminder of a king who loved a ghost more than his queen. Still, Gyanna remained, never sent away or found dead in her cradle one morning. 

Of course, where Cersei could not love her firstborn daughter, Robert cherished the little babe beyond anything else in the world. His love for his daughter ran deep, and he favored her as he favored his baby sister. Laurylle was raised with Gyanna, the girls only six years apart, but soon that closeness changed as they grew. When Laurylle turned four and ten, it was obvious that she would protect her niece ruthlessly if necessary. What had been an almost sisterly love morphed into motherly love, with Laurylle Baratheon doting upon and teaching her niece as the years passed. 

And while Laurylle taught Gyanna more than any tutor would teach a prince, Robert doted upon his daughter by presenting her with horses, taking her hunting with him, or on trips through the realm. He told her stories of the Storm Kings when she was a child, and raised her to speak her mind as she grew older, taking heed in her opinions. Gyanna was the apple of Robert’s eye, and the child Laurylle would never bear.

“What of Lord Stark’s son?” asked Gyanna, pulling Laurylle from her memories. “What of Robb? Father wishes me to marry him, but I know nothing more than he is my age.” 

Letting go of a whimsical sigh, the young woman in black offered her niece a warm smile, “We shall see when we arrive at Winterfell. Alas, I have never been to the North, but I remember Lord Stark, and he was very kind to me when I was a child. The Starks are known for their honor, and I believe your intended will not displease you in that regard.” 

“What if he does not care for me?” 

“Who could not love you, my darling girl?” Laurylle posed, leading the young woman through the Keep to her chambers. “You are a tempest, a warrior, but your heart is kind and open and warm. He would be a fool to dismiss you, for you are the loveliest creature the world has ever known.” 

Sniffling, Gyanna smiled with a breathy laugh, “You always know what to say, Auntie.” 

“Your father would say the same,” said Laurylle as they reached her royal apartments. “Come, let us sit by the fire. We’ll share some tea to warm our bones and prepare ourselves for a long journey.”

Gyanna beamed, a smile as pure as sunshine following a rain, and the skies outside the Keep quieted at her gentle laughter…


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gyanna's POV

STORM QUEENS & WINTER KINGS

Gyanna Baratheon

  
  


The month following the Hand of the King’s swift death passed in a blur, but no matter how many dresses she embroidered, or how many times she re-organized her traveling trunk, or sat with her Aunt Laurylle learning the histories of the Seven Kingdoms, Gyanna Baratheon could not rid herself of the guilt in knowing why Lord Arryn had died. 

Not even when she accompanied her aunt out into the city with a small handful of Baratheon guards on a visit to the Street of Steel. There was no explanation provided other than Laurylle desired a visit to Tobho Mott, the best armourer in the capitol. The invitation to accompany her aunt was enough for Gyanna to accept, ready to be out from under her mother’s scrutinizing gaze and the lack of anything properly distracting as the day of departure to Winterfell drew near. 

Dressed in a simple gown of pale yellow and dove gray silks, Gyanna surmised that she must seem a brilliant flower in a rather grim garden. Her aunt had dressed in black Dornish lace, the only color the princess had ever seen her beloved relative wear since she blossomed into a woman. Mostly, ever since Laurylle had been deemed old enough to select her own wardrobe. Gyanna knew there was a reason behind her aunt’s constant donning of mourning black, which was always paired with a veil of translucent obsidian silk pinned in place upon the top of her head by a minimalist diadem of - more like a bandeau, or headband, really - of delicate stag antlers worked from gold, or one of silver artfully crafted to resemble the laurel leaves in which she had been named. 

The black gowns were always plain when completed by the royal seamstress, but Laurylle spent her evenings stitching elegant embroidery in the delicate fabrics, such as the damask and silk. The Dornish lace always remained untouched, though, but an embroidered sash was cinched around the petite woman’s waist to provide a miniscule splash of color in the beautifully crafted gown. Other times, Gyanna’s aunt stitched clouded crystal beads into border mosaics, or incorporated pearls from the Summer Isles into her embroidering. 

Gyanna was always baffled at how precise Laurylle’s stitch-work would be, and that she actually had the time, considering the woman’s charity work, as well as her scheming and plotting. For what, the princess did not fully know, or understand, but she did know that her aunt was much like Lord Varys, and saw her purpose in serving for the betterment of the realm, not the crown, or her family. She was a very subtle woman, unnoticed by the key players in what Gyanna’s mother considered,  _ the game of thrones. _

Of course, Gyanna had yet to understand how a visit to the Street of Steel during a blisteringly hot afternoon benefited anyone in the grand scheme of all things. 

The two royal women managed to pass through the city to the smithy with relative ease, followed by guards, with the lower avenues so packed with people. A pouch of gold dragons each, Gyanna and Laurylle offered a coin each to the crowds that lined the streets, begging. There were so many starving, suffering, and Gyanna felt a sense of failure knowing the only good she could do upon the lower classes was to offer a coin and blessings for good health, all with a gentle smile. The Crown should do more for the smallfolk, and it tore at her sense of justice that her family - the nobles throughout the realm - lived so comfortably, with no fear of going without, while others suffered so greatly to benefit those above them in status. 

As they neared the Street of Steel, the crowds thinned out. Tobho Mott’s establishment was easy enough to locate. It was obvious in the sense that the shop was built from red clay stone, large, and well maintained, while the others seemed to whittle down to direlect hovels towards the end of the lane. There was the sound of molten steel hissing, ringing clank of a hammer swinging down to shape red hot metal on an anvil. The air outside was suffocating between the unbearable day and the scalding humidity wafting from the workshop. Gyanna could not fathom how any ordinary being could survive working in a smithy, it was like entering the Seven Hells. 

The Baratheon guards stood vigil outside the shop, blocking the entrance, while Gyanna and her aunt entered. An older man could be seen first, checking the blunt swords hanging up for purchase. Towards the back there stood a boy - or man - around Gyanna’s own age, hammering away at a piece of red hot iron to mold it into a sword. He looked familiar, like her father; a jaw like an anvil, piercing blue eyes that looked flecked with grey - even from a distance. He was tall, and heavily muscled, as well. He only wore a leather vest, leaving his arms and chest bare, dirty, but… 

He looked exactly like her father, just as she remembered from when she was a tiny child. Her first memories of her father, the King, were plentiful, and this smithy’s apprentice had the same face, but younger. It was unsettling.

“Princess, Dowager Princess,” greeted the owner, Tobho Mott, with a bow. “Pleasure to see you, my lady. Back to speak with the boy?”

Gyanna watched the interaction with interest, confused as to why her aunt, the King’s sister, had been visiting a blacksmith’s apprentice. Apparently, she had been visiting the young man for quite some time, as he set down his apron and hammer, bowing before embracing the anomaly that was Gyanna’s aunt. The woman did not even flinch away from the soot that smeared her arms and hands. It was like watching her aunt embrace her, as an outside audience. The care and warmth in the Baratheon woman’s features, glittering in her eyes. 

“Gendry, my dear,” said Laurylle, pulling away from the young man to hold him at arm’s length. It was to take a good look at him, as if measuring him against her memory. It was the same thing Gyanna’s aunt did after returning from a visit to Storm’s End, after embracing her nieces and little Tommen fiercely. “Only a fortnight and you seem to have grown several more inches.” 

“Yes, my lady,” chuckled the young man, Gendry, a beaming smile that struck Gyanna as harshly as his features - so much like her father. “Master Mott continues to take great care of me, as requested.”

“I appreciate your devotion to your charge, Master Mott,” Laurylle addressed the blacksmith, before turning back to Gendry, “but the time has come to leave this place, my darling. I have so much to tell you, and we have a journey ahead of us.”

“Auntie?” asked Gyanna, pulling attention to herself. “What -”

“Not here, not now,” warned her aunt gently, with a tender smile. “There is much to discuss with you both, so much that you do not know.” Turning back to Gendry, she squeezed his hands, “Pack your things, my darling. We shall discuss this further tonight over supper.” 

Gendry looked as if he was about to argue, but thought better of it and did as he was bid. Gyanna knew all too well to never argue with her aunt. Despite the woman’s gentle nature, and youth, as she was only a few years older than Gyanna, herself, the woman was a Baratheon. She was carved from stone in the midst of a savage storm, and sharp, like Valyrian steel, an immovable force. 

Of course, the outer shells of Laurylle Baratheon were exceedingly compassionate and kind, loving, and so warm. She was everything Gyanna wished her own mother could convey, but the unique relationship the young princess had with her aunt was deep, meaningful. They had been raised together, played together, and then it had shifted. Then her aunt had become more of a motherly figure as she flowered, and remained unmarried. A close friend, a mentor, and more of a mother than Queen Cersei, the princess related and spent more time with the Bartheon relatives of her family than the Lannisters. Even her own siblings, but Gyanna still remained close enough to her younger sister and brother, Myrcella and Tommen. There had never been much of a bond with Joffrey, especially after he had gutted her little kitten when she was no more than a child of five years. 

There was just something sickly and wrong about him, and now she knew why… 

Later, Gyanna sat in the Queen’s chambers, under her mother’s narrowed gaze, practicing her stitching with Myrcella before supper. It was always the same resentful glint in her mother’s eyes that set Gyanna’s teeth on edge, the calculating look that made her wonder if the older woman was deciding how best to get rid of her. 

“Tell me, little dove,” called her mother, draining another goblet of wine before supper was even laid out on the tables. “How was your excursion into the city? I hear your  _ delightful _ aunt took you to the Street of Steel.” 

It was a trap. Gyanna knew it was a trap, but her answer had to be just as calculated as her mother’s pointed question. The Lannisters claimed to be lions, but she had only ever known her mother to be a viper, striking with precision to inject her venom. There was no more love between them, not as Gyanna grew older from a babe. It was as if the shine had rubbed off of her when King Robert had begun taking his firstborn daughter to the training yards when she said she wanted a sword. Or taking her on hunts when she grew older still. The more of her father’s shadow she became, the more her mother withdrew and began to hate her, or resent her, or simply use her as a target. 

“Yes, mother” replied Gyanna, offering a smile before turning back to her embroidery. “She invited me along. It was quite an education.” 

Queen Cersei scoffed, “Did she have another sword commissioned for you?” 

“Not this time,” answered the princess, fighting to remain calm under the increasingly hot gaze of the Queen. “A coronet, instead, for my coming nameday. Stag antlers and a direwolf, for my future husband.” 

Yes, the Starks,” sniffed the Queen, pouring herself another glass of sweet wine. “Such a pity your father has it in his head to sell you off to a pack of wild northern wolves. I argued for a Tyrell, or Oberyn Martell, but, alas, Dorne would not have you.” 

“As opposed to sowing a stag into a garden full of roses and thorns?” asked Gyanna, refusing to meet her mother’s gaze. She could feel it burning through her, all the while. “You must think me docile to consider Willas Tyrell.” 

Cersei scoffed, again, “No, little dove. I believe you too reckless to survive such a garden. The vines growing up, up, up, and the thorns piercing your flesh… Better to be devoured by wolves… Death would come more quickly.” 

Gyanna tensed, needled hovering over an embellished star above a stag’s head, waiting. It was the most truthful confession she had ever been given by her mother, and the most threatening. 

“Leave, Gyanna,” ordered her mother, gently, but with no less authority. “Go sup with your beloved father and his darling sister. You enjoy their company more than ours.” 

Doing as she was bid, Gyanna stood and gathered her things in a basket to take with her to Aunt Laurylle’s chambers. Kissing Myrcella farewell, the princess stopped at the door, turning to speak before leaving, “You are wrong, mother. Aunt Laurylle and father simply care more than you.” 

And with that, Gyanna left, recognizing the sharp sound of glass shattering against the hardwood door.

_ She knows... _


End file.
